never say goodbye
by thir13enth
Summary: you were never good with words anyway. a drabble series, i guess. — f-byleth/edelgard
1. tongue-tied

**notes: **edelgard might just make me buy a nintendo switch.

* * *

**tongue-tied**

* * *

"Enjoying the fresh air?" she asks.

You face her voice momentarily, before you turn back to the sky, wordlessly inviting her to join you.

Your eyes stay on the oranges and the reds that bleed from the melting sun, but you keep her well within your peripheral vision. You take note of the small squint as her eyes adjust to the light, the soft inhale, the quiet sigh she lets out. She exudes a strong and calming presence, and you feel the tension in your shoulders relax as she nears you.

Usually it's the other way around. She was always the one retreating for outdoor recluse on this balcony, and you were always the one following after.

Now that the roles are switched you wonder just how much she's imparted on you. Maybe in the beginning, you just always happened to find her here, but now you've grown to expect her here.

And perhaps you've grown to want her here, too.

"Funny," she remarks. "Usually you're the one to spot me here." She looks to your direction. "Don't tell me I'm rubbing off on you," she teases.

You shrug. She's said all that you just thought. You have nothing more to add, and even if there is something for you to say — and you know in your heart there is — you haven't thought it through.

You don't know what to say, and for the first time, it bothers you.

"You're not one much for words, are you?"

You look at her blankly — not surprised because this is what everyone tells you after spending enough silence with you, but interrupted from the unanswered questions swirling in your mind — and shake your head in response. You hold her gaze for a moment before your eyes grow too shy from her intensity.

"I should have known saying that wouldn't have served to get more out of you," she says, as if chiding herself. She chuckles then, and her usually rigid body collapses for a rare moment with her light laughter, her shoulders curving in and her jaw pointing down.

You return a smile. It takes effort you're not accustomed to exercising, but you can see that it counts. Her lavender eyes lighten, and the curve of her grin deepens.

"Never mind what I said then," she tells you, turning to the horizon and resting her hands on the balcony fencing. "There must not be that much to share with me."

You're quick to correct her. "It's not that," you immediately counter. It surprises you how fast the words come to you.

Maybe it's how suddenly, how urgently you say it, or maybe it's because this is the first she's heard from you all night, but she's caught off guard. You can tell because her eyes widen and because her lips part ever so slightly.

"I don't need words with you," you then admit.

And it's true. You don't need to say any more for her to understand.

She relaxes and smiles, facing the setting sun again. The light reveals the soft flush of her cheeks and reflects off the few unruly strands of her white hair, forming the illusion of sparkles over her skin.

"I suppose I should get to be more comfortable with silence then," she says. Her eyes only stray from the sky to see that your hands are within reach.

She gently places her hand over yours, weaving her fingers between yours.

Your mouths stay closed for the remainder of the evening. You exchange no words as night washes over the horizon. Your lips only part when she kisses them.


	2. hips swaying

**notes: **for wordslinger

* * *

**hips swaying**

* * *

The music drowns out in your ears as your eyes become completely occupied by her figure. You don't even notice that she's watching you watch her until she suddenly stops and steps towards you. Guilty and caught, your eyes flit up to hers, and when your eyes meet hers, she gives you a wide smile. She doesn't break rhythm, sauntering towards you with the beat of the music. Her bare feet peep under the hems of her dress, the clink of metal bands around her wrist and ankles.

You swallow hard when she stops before you, your chin pointed up at her.

"Like my dancing?" she asks.

"Yes," you admit, your voice dry.

She smiles again before taking a seat next to you. She leans in and the outer sides of your thighs touch. You can't help but notice that her hands are so close to yours.

"I didn't know you danced," you suddenly say, as if trying to distract your cheeks from flushing red.

"I do," she affirms. Her violet eyes seem to sparkle when she tells you this.

You think she leans in closer, but it might also just be you imagining things that you want to see. Her skin glows blue and silver in the light around you. The fabric of her clothing hangs loose and low. You never noticed before how sharp her collarbones are, you think to yourself.

"You usually wear clothes with high collars."

She snorts, recoiling in her laughter. "You always impress me with your astute observation," she remarks. She looks back at you, pursing her lips in challenge. "You always notice the smallest things about me, don't you?"

You have nothing to say to that.

Her eyes carry a little twinkle of mischief. "This dress doesn't have such a high collar, now does it?" she asks you.

It's not really a question. You answer anyway.

"No," you reply. "It doesn't."

"Do you like it?"

You blink, looking down from her eyes slowly to where the seams meet her skin and then back up to her bright eyes, awaiting your response.

"Yes," you admit. You feel the brink of a blush come over your cheeks, but you're not completely sure what you're embarrassed by. You've told her that you like her dress, and nothing more.

"Well then, here's a question," Edelgard proposes to you. "Which do you like more: my dancing or my dress?"

That's not a question you feel like answering, and that's not a choice you even feel like musing about. The heat you've been trying to keep under your skin threatens to rise again.

You change the subject. "You have a scar," you remark.

You know immediately you've unearthed a dark memory from her heart. She doesn't call you out on avoiding her question, and although the smile on her face doesn't fade, the creases around her eyes flatten and the shine in her eyes dim.

You hear your father's voice reprimanding you to apologize. This is a situation that you have made inappropriate for the mood.

"I'm sorry," you say automatically.

"I should have known better than to think it would go unnoticed by you," she simply replies. She leans back, crossing and uncrossing her legs. She turns her head to you. "Do you remember what I told you?"

She's vague but you think you already know when the scar was from, why the scar is there, and what the scar is for. The scar shows that only time has passed — not the memories, not the loss, not the ever-encroaching burdens of a crumbling empire.

Her hand suddenly reaches for your hand, wrapping her callused yet gentle fingers around yours. She places your hand in her lap, now cradling it in both her palms. She turns towards you, looking at you with incredibly soft and vulnerable eyes.

Maybe you feel your heart skip a beat, or at least what you presume to be that feeling.

"Let me show you," she tells you. "I feel that I must, for as close as you are to me, I would feel like I was betraying you if I kept this from you."

You don't say no. You only watch her, and you watch _only _her.

She stands, rising to her full height — small yet nevertheless unwavering. She never lets go of your hand, and she waits for you to follow. You do, and the two of you quietly leave the ballroom together. She leads you down the familiar path to her bedroom, and she invites you into her room without another word. The door clicks shut behind you, and she sits you down onto her bed.

She finally lets your hand go, and almost dutifully, you place it back in your lap. She stands in front of you, her hands resting over the gold jewelry around her neck. She pauses for a moment, watching you watch her — then she slowly pulls the metal over her head, drops it down to the floor with a slithering clink. She reaches for her armbands and her bracelets, unclasping them and throwing them down without care as well.

She takes one, two steps towards you. She reaches behind her, and seconds later, red cloth falls to the floor to join the rest of the relinquished clothing. Her left hand reaches for the strap over her shoulder, and she slips it off her arm, her skin blossoming from behind.

Now you see her scar in all its glory.

Fine and thin, carved in the shape of deliberate science. Precise as if to disguise a family's failed heritage within unblemished skin, yet careless as if to silence a past from history with shame. It snakes from her sternum and dips into her bosom. It crawls over her skin, following the ridges of her ribs and the swell of her right breast.

She was built to be perfect. She was edited to remove flaw. She was never given the chance to achieve greatness, only the chance to fail expectations. She was constructed to be the vessel for her family's legacy, her suffering just a means to an end.

"I'm sorry," you say. This time, it's not automatic.

She shakes her head. "You did nothing wrong," she tells you.

She comes forward, stepping between your legs. Your arms instinctively wrap around her back. She embraces your head, pressing your face into her chest.

You can hear her shaking breath. You can feel her clenching heart.

How ironic — the sight of a healed scar over an open wound.

You trace that silver line with your lips, kiss it from start to end.


End file.
